


Punchline

by astaria51 (winged)



Category: Bandom, The Sandman, Vertigo (Comics), White Stripes
Genre: Crossover, Dark, Early Work, Gen, Injury, Music Creation, Musicians, RPF, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-09
Updated: 2004-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winged/pseuds/astaria51
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After injuring his hand, Jack has to think about what he's doing, where the message is going. Who he is if he isn't doing it anymore.</p><p>He has a chat with a girl in black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punchline

Hello, children.

What's black and white and red all over?

...Jack's pretty sure the answer is not "a bunch of Candy Cane Children." Still, as he gives the crowd a fond smile and a wave, shrugging off the guitar to the last dying chord of Boll Weevil, the colors are flying brightly. There are deviants. But overwhelmingly...

Did they mean to start a trend? He's not sure. Wasn't the idea, at first, to be less than that? ...more?  
(Well, the idea was the music, first, and then the concepts: changing, morphing...)

But he's not sure.  
Not sure of much, anymore. Decisions begin to blur. He used to be able to talk about values with utter confidence - his fans - his children (aren't they, really, even the older ones?) - they look to him for answers.  
He finds himself apologizing.  
Making decisions that he knows won't be understood. That he doesn't quite understand. Apologizing.  
Should he apologize to them?  
Of course he should. They keep him here. And more, they need to know he is still the same Jack. No matter how far he has come, no matter how far he goes -still- he is Jack.  
(Right? They can't create him as if out of clay: mold him. He isn't someone new...)

A zebra with chicken pox.  
(The punchline to the earlier joke, coupled with the thought that it would make an interesting conversation piece as far as taxidermy. As if to reassure him that, yes, he IS still the old Jack.)

He thinks about his zebra. (Home. Home? Home.)  
Wonders what day it is; they all blend into a sea of chords and faces and peppermint stripes. How long has he been on the road? Longer, probably, than he _wasn't_ , or at least it feels like it. Even recovering from surgery wasn't restful, more panicked.  
He feels old. (Rock and roll death has kissed his hand and left it aching...skipped off, laughing. The finger still throbs, and the pain reminds him that he is alive.)

He never used to count things that way, but Jack has become fascinated with the dull pain. It's different for each chord - each tensing of the strings - he can feel it build as he slides up the neck. Bb. C. C#. D. D#.

Is this what the strings feel?

The metal in his bone resonates against its kin. Buzzes. Howls. Stings.

When he's on the road, he misses that. He can practice, but it's not the same. The intensity of being on stage...

He tells himself this is crazy. (Or temporary. Or to forget about it.)

Late at night he finds himself fingering songs against his arm. Digging his index finger hard against flesh. His forearm is the guitar, his veins are strings -- he plays the blues. Fingers, slides. Hammers. Whole concerts find their patterns bruised into his skin.

His pulse echoes faintly, like a dream in the palm of his hand.

 

"That was a fantastic show," the girl says.  
The first thing he notices about her is that she has her own color scheme. She looks like she should be at a goth show. Or glam. She's dressed in black and silver: holding a top hat in one hand (how did she manage that in the crowd? has she been holding it all night?), her coat edged in feathers, a spiral down from one eye. An ankh hangs delicately around her neck.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he answers, wondering how she got past security, where she came from. Decides it doesn't (really) matter. "What was your favorite part?"

"I'm a fan of the covers, actually," she answers openly. "It's refreshing to see someone play the blues the way you do - the respect soaks right in, y'know?" Her speech is familiar, something about the vowels, the query at the end. She twists a smile. He wonders about her age. The covers? Sure, kids listen to the blues. He did. But...it's unusual. And...he would have guessed 17, but her eyes...

"Of course," she adds, "In The Cold, Cold Night's great. Meg sounded fantastic, could you tell her that?"  
There is no thrill of celebrity about this girl -- and even more disconcertingly, Jack has never met someone who could outstare him.

"I'll do that," he answers quietly, "when I see her," (where IS Meg?). He pauses. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure!" She smiles brightly.

"Where did you get your ankh?"

"Oh, this?" She touches it, her lashes curving down to match her smile as she glances at the pendant. "You know, I've forgotten? It was a long time ago -- it was..." She pauses, smiling up at him. "A gift." She shrugs. "It symbolizes -"

"Eternal life," he says, nodding earnestly. "I know." His eyes could not be torn away from it if he tried. "And power over life and death, in some mythos."

"Yes." Her tone is light, though not surprised. "You're fascinated with that, aren't you."

Something flutters. "...Life?" Jack purses his lips into a half-smile. "...well, it's interesting, to say the least..."

She looks at him silently. In her eyes (imagined, of course) Jack can see - taxidermy - stages of life - a paintsplattered photo shoot he was recently reminded of - a fixation with the past - the days that blend together - even his surgery (videotaped) and the repercussions that he's still feeling - the way the slide feels under his fingers on a lonely night.

She can't know any of that. Well, she could know all of it, of course. But not the way he sees them. Obviously.

Jack brushes his hair away from his face and looks harder at her. Nods. "I suppose you're right."

She smiles gently. "There's no harm in that."

"No?" He fixes her with a raised eyebrow.

She quirks one back, this tiny girl that challenges everything. "Do you think there is?"

He has no answer. The venue is emptying; he's attuned to the white noise of the crowd even from this distance. "Do you want to take a walk?" he suddenly asks, instead. He's not sure why he's asking; it seems like nothing so much as a very, very bad idea -- but then, there's nothing he's doing tonight, for the first time in forever. And he doubts there's much she could do to him. She doesn't seem the kind to be looking for publicity.

She should be surprised, but he's grown accustomed to the unflappable attitude of the pale, shadowy girl. She does, however, look supremely pleased. "I'd love to take a walk with you, Jack."

His name startles him - he's used to it being called to get his attention, or tagged onto goodnights. Those he's close to use it with far less frequency than those he's not -- the press, reporters, movie stars and musicians he's barely met: they feel they have the right to address him with familiarity. Fans are different; they'll chant his and Meg's names, but shy away from using it in person.  
She, however, knows him. Uses it like an old friend. He hasn't heard his name this way in too long.

They pass security, grabbing his coat on the way. He murmurs goodnights, small talks, jokes. Asks about Meg. (They've just seen her, yes. No, they don't know where she went. Yes, they'll tell her where he's gone.)

It's a cold, rainy night, and the girl puts on her top hat with a smile. "I usually have an umbrella," she half-apologizes. Jack shrugs and offers her an arm. He barely knows her, and it's not icy.

Still.  
For some reason she seems like the type to offer an arm to. For some reason Jack doesn't feel uncomfortable doing it.

She takes it with a smile that's more than pleased. Settles herself comfortably on his elbow. The two walk in silence for a while; not tense silence, but the kind that it usually takes a long time to find. The kind that doesn't require filling. Smaller noises become audible within it; far away, a train whistle blows.

"Do you ever wonder how different the land would look, had the country sponsored a rail system instead of freeways?" she asks, tilting her head to hear the long wail.

Jack knows she knows he does. Nods. Thoughtfully: "Musicians used to have their own cars. Duke Ellington," he gestures vaguely. "Might be fun to tour that way."

"It would cut down on accidents," she says clearly, and Jack feels cold.

"...yes."

"How's your finger?"

She knows too much. Asks too much. And somehow, yet, the question is kind.

"Healed as it'll ever be, I think," he says nonchalantly. "Not bad, really. I'm just glad to be playing again."

"Mmhmm?" They keep walking.

"Yes. God. That was--"

"Terrifying," she murmurs with a nod, looking at the ground, but he goes on as if he hasn't heard.

"Sometimes I talk like I'd give it all up. And I...well. Look. To be honest, if it ever becomes too much fakery, I -- I think I will. There are other factors, of course," he hastens. "But I can't be someone else for the purpose of broadcasting my own ideas. There's no point."

She agrees with her eyes.

"But I love this right now, and I love them, the kids, you know," (she had stopped, a long time ago, being considered a fan) "and so -" he pauses and swallows. Forges on. "Right now I'm happy, here. Couldn't ask for more. So as long as Meg's good, we do this. But...I do talk."

"Of course."

"That said...I never meant it all. Guitar. For a bit there I thought I might not ever play again. And. ..." He shakes his head. "I just couldn't think that."

"You've recovered well, though." Her eyes are expectant, unpressing. Is the knot in Jack's stomach his own doing? He's suddenly aware that he's begun to grip his right wrist. Too hard. The pulsing of his finger startles him.

"Yes." He drops his left hand to his side, shoves it in his pocket, clenches his finger. "It still aches - it's just getting - around that."

"Getting accustomed."

"You could say that."

She pauses and looks at him. "Jack, you'll have this for the rest of your life. Someday, more than likely, it'll get arthritic, especially the way that you're using it, I'm sorry to say...I'm not predicting a Lou Reed career." She smiles sympathetically.

"No?" He grins. "Damn. Just go and shatter all my dreams. I was trying to kill Mick Jagger's record."

"Sorry." She smiles. "But everyone has pain, love. Look." She gestures. They've hit the outskirts, a poor neighborhood. Not unlike other places he's known. Dirty windows, some of them cracked; peeling paint. Broken glass lines the street; deserted stores that look like they haven't seen workers or customers in years gape at them.  
Jack hasn't walked through a random neighborhood like this in a long time.

The girl slowly brings her arm down to meet his hand, slip hers into his much larger one. "This is why I like the blues. It's true. It laughs at itself, it aches...and then it keeps on walking." Jack looks down at her, startled, pauses in his walking.

She stops and faces him, still holding his hand. "You've got a lot of things to do. Take your pain, swallow it whole, and keep moving." He blinks at her blankly, suddenly feeling like he's been hit.

She looks deeply at him and slowly rubs his arm in a gesture like reassurance. Shaking her head, she reinforces quietly, "Just go on, Jack. There's no reason for you to keep that taste in your mouth."

He suddenly finds himself hugging her. Clinging, completely wrapping her in his arms. And yet, he's the one being held. Like a child.

"Have you ever felt like -- you're in the middle of a joke...and you don't know the punchline?" he breathes, but it's more like a gasp.

"It's okay," she murmurs.

"What's your name?" he asks, knowing the answer in his stomach. In his chest.

She smiles against his shoulder. "Taleuth," she whispers, and he nods into her hair.

Jack suddenly, in a sharp movement, pulls his left hand from his pocket, slides something from it into the pocket of her coat. The glass object falls from his grasp, the edges catching around his fingers as he curves them and then lets go.

She nods. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_ ," he murmurs and steps back. She looks at him.

"Can you find your way back from here?" He knows she doesn't just mean back to the theater.

"I think I can, yes."

"Alright, Jack. Whoever you decide you are..." she leans in and kisses his forehead, leaving a black print. "...I'll see you some other night." He smiles and nods.

Jack looks up the street, towards the lamplight. In the distance, a train calls.


End file.
